


baluba shake

by bleakmidwinter



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drug Use, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Prison, Season/Series 01, i don't think i need to tell you this isn't healthy, or loving, when beecher's addiction was at its peak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29452692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleakmidwinter/pseuds/bleakmidwinter
Summary: Tobias and Ryan stumble into a sexual encounter during one of their drug trips.
Relationships: Tobias Beecher/Ryan O'Reily
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	baluba shake

**Author's Note:**

> the title is Brunetta's 'Baluba Shake' - Yes, I've been watching Killing Eve

Beecher staggers into O’Reily’s pod for the fifth time this week; Wednesday hasn’t even passed. He feels muggy, lost, a little bit desperate. All the ingredients combined to make one hell of a pretty uncomfortable cocktail. Drug addiction. It isn’t so different from alcoholism, except for the fact he isn’t alone. He’s not sure if that makes this all the worse.

Ryan greets him with his charming Irish smile, and hops down from the top bunk where he’d been swinging his legs.

The boy is filled to the brink with the energy of a child, and certainly the giddy untouchable attitude of one. He practically corners Beecher by the sink and the tits materialize in his fist. 

Tits. Drugs. Snow. All the same. 

“I could hook you up with some needles one of these days,” he murmurs, priggish grin ever present. Beecher grins back and shakes his head, sniffing harshly to clear his airways and prepare. 

The only times he finds himself smiling are the times when he’s about to do hard drugs. Who would have thought a Lawyer and doting father and husband would surrender to such a vice? 

“I’d rather risk HIV when it’s absolutely unavoidable,” he admits. Ryan flashes him a look shooting home something close to sympathy, but he can’t  _ really  _ know what Beecher means. He’s somehow avoided a cock up the ass all these years. If Beecher could pour one out for his ingenuity and street smarts as a thin, straight man in the penal system, he would. For now, all he has are the tits he’s spending his father’s money on. 

“Come on,” Ryan encourages, sprinkling the stuff out on his wrist. Beecher glances once more out the fingerprinted windows of his cell, and snorts the powder off of Ryan’s skin. 

Ryan always smells like Irish Spring, ironic as the only soap they have in this joint is basically made from the dirt of their shoes. The drugs take effect immediately, and Ryan is snorting up his own portion just as Beecher is losing his footing. 

“Hah! Oh man,” Ryan croons, shaking his head. “I am a bad influence on you, ya know that Beecher?” 

“If you’re the worst influence in this place,” Beecher takes a deep breath as the room starts to spin, just a little, “then I’m fucked.” 

“You’ve already been fucked!” Ryan answers, far too loud.

Beecher stares at him and then bursts into a cackle, the noise breaking apart at the seams. He has been fucked, up the ass, several times, by Schillinger. The truth of that doesn’t seem so devastating when his plug shouts it like that; it sounds funny. 

“And how exactly did  _ you  _ avoid getting fucked?” Beecher slurs, stumbling over to and against the bedframe before he can take purchase of one of the pegs. Ryan glowers from where he’s sitting on the bottom bunk, suddenly vibrating with tension. 

“You sayin’ I look like a prag?”   


“Of course not!” 

Ryan huffs, indignation and short temper, before laughing. The tension drains in an instant, and Beecher has a distant thought that he’d make quite a terrifying partner to live with. 

“I shivved the first guy who tried. Got ‘em right in the carotid,” Ryan points at his own, biting his tongue between his teeth as if to prevent himself from spilling further secrets. 

“I could stick Schillinger couldn’t I,” Beecher muses, picturing it in his mind vividly. 

“Nah, you’d just get fucked by the next Aryan passing by. I was lucky, I got attacked by some nameless mook, not part of any of the, ya know, gangs and such. People still got the message to never touch this ass o’mine.” Ryan slaps it to make a point. “You, my friend, are in deep.” 

“Deep water or deep shit?” Beecher asks, beginning to feel like the drugs aren’t enough to keep him from unwittingly drifting down a terrible path in his mind. 

He plops down on the bottom bunk beside Ryan, and stares at him, the curve of his jaw, his hair. He looks clean, which is a strange sentiment. Not many people look clean in this joint. He keeps thinking about it. 

“Don’t you miss it?”

Ryan gives him a look. 

“What?” he does another line on his own wrist, not offering Beecher any more. Beecher isn’t sure if it’s a selfish act, or one of friendship. Keeping him from a harder addiction break. He can’t imagine Ryan has many feelings for his customers. 

“Sex.” 

“You sayin’ you’re getting off when they rear end you?” Ryan asks in disbelief, disgust lining his tone. It’s impossible for him to imagine just how mortifying the act is, to be debased the way Schillinger debases Beecher almost every night.

“No,” he responds unsteadily. “No, but I imagine missing out on  _ any  _ skin-to-skin interaction gets a little old after a while.” 

“I ain’t no fag.”

“I don’t think many men in here are,” Beecher admits. He’s certainly not, but hell knows what he’d do for a kind hand, sweet words. Male or not. He’s practically hard just thinking about affection, no strings attached, no mention of Aryan brotherhood. 

Ryan leans up against the wall the bunk is pressed against. He cracks his knuckles and laughs again, eyes shuttering closed. 

“I said I haven’t taken it up the ass, I never said shit about a BJ or two. It’s not always the worst thing to do to get some extra tits, or just to get off, ya know. It’s not about sex.” 

“Mm, I miss my wife,” Beecher mumbles, rolling onto his stomach just a bit. The pillow smells of Ryan, and it’s clean too. He can’t help but find the smell appealing. Shillinger smells like cardboard and sweat. It’s nauseating. 

Ryan practically groans. “I hear you, brother. Me and the misses, god, she could suck me off for hours.” 

Beecher adjusts himself in his pants, knowing deep down his erection is most likely due to the drugs reigning over every brain cell in his head, running his functions all over. He wonders if Ryan gets hard from using. 

“I always wished Genevieve could deep throat. I’ve never had anyone deep throat me.” 

He doesn’t know why he says it; he was never this open about his sex life to anyone, not even close friends. College friends, even. The drugs aren’t helping, but barriers, short and tall, all crumbled the day he arrived in this hellhole. 

“What? Dude, are you kidding, it’s the best. Are you showing off?” 

“I’m not that big if that’s what you’re asking,” Beecher asks, chuckling as he rolls onto his back. He doesn’t know why he does it, to show Ryan, or just alleviate the pressure on his cock. Ryan's eyes instantly lock onto his groin and he shrugs. 

“Big enough. Women are retards, ya have just over four inches and they act like you’re tryin’ to choke ‘em to death.” 

A string of pleasure wraps around his spinal cord making him warm. It’s nice to be called big by a fellow inmate, a rather intimidating one at that. Schillinger beats him down everyday, berates him, treats him like the garbage in the mailroom he puts in the shredder. 

Beecher doesn’t know what comes over him when he toes at Ryan’s shoulder with his foot. “You’ve sucked a guy off?” he asks, a grin plastered to his face.

Ryan looks a little taken aback, but he nods. 

“Yeah, so what? Everyone in here has.”

“Not me.”

“Schillinger has totally stuffed his gross Nazi cock in your mouth are you kidding me?” Ryan turns to him, cat-like, on all fours. “You’re saying he just pounds your ass?” 

Beecher tries not to wince at the wording. “Yup.” 

“Damn, bro, that’s rough. You must get off less than me.” 

Beecher tries not to think of all the times he’d gotten aroused being raped by Schillinger in his cell. It isn’t his fault, he tells himself, but he has thought briefly of what it would be like to be fucked properly. With lube, with someone he likes, with someone who doesn’t force him.

“Tell me what it’s like,” Beecher requests, in a lower voice. 

Ryan glances out at the hacks, and back down, eyes half lidded. He adjusts himself in his trousers, and bites his bottom lip. 

“How ‘bout I show you?” 

Beecher’s eyes go wide, senses breaking through the veil of drugs for a minute. “Whoa, hold on,” he starts, but Ryan shoots one last glances up at the hacks, who are apparently not watching because he rubs Beecher through his trousers and takes his cock out. 

It firms in his hand, and Beecher’s breathing screeches to a halt. 

“You’ll like this, the tits’ll make it feel great,” Ryan assures, leaning down to swallow his whole cock down.

Beecher bites into a fist, pulling his own hair with the other hand. 

Pleasure springs up all over, shooting through his nerves, blood rushing fast to his cock as Ryan’s nose buries in his pubes. The man is fast, running on the speed of the drugs no doubt, but he bobs like he expects Beecher to blow it in seconds. He just might. 

Spittle runs out from between his lips, overflowing. 

The room spins wildly. 

“God, Ryan,” Beecher moans, swallowing the rest of the noise before the hacks can overhear. Around this time of day, they don’t come around anyway. Tits are being traded all around the unit; Schillinger would be owning his ass if he hadn’t sequestered himself away in his plug’s cell. 

“Don’t say my name, it’s weird man,” Ryan grumbles, voice hoarse before he swallows him back down and sucks. Beecher’s spine arches, and after a few wet bobs up and down his shaft, deepthroating him with ease, Beecher comes with the reminder that this is the first time he’s truly gotten off since the last time he slept with his wife. 

The color behind his eyes turns white, the drugs make his orgasm feel as if he’s floating in pleasure, and it lasts, god does it last. It feels like hours. 

Ryan wipes his mouth and clambers over to the sink and spits out Beecher’s cum, washing it away with water. Beecher lies on his bed, heaving, and scrambling to tuck himself back in his boxers. 

“Open up bud, it’s a mutual lesson,” Ryan tells him with humor in his voice, and Beecher feels a sliver of relief that this hasn’t changed anything between them. He’d be naive to believe it would. Beecher turns, still dazed, and opens his mouth obediently. 

Perhaps too obediently, because Ryan gives him an odd look.

_ You’re a freak,  _ kind of look. 

Ryan nearly crawls on all fours until his hands are balancing on the bar at the foot of the bed, and then he’s fucking the head of his cock across Beecher’s tongue. “Come on, lawyer boy, your mouth is bigger than that.” 

Beecher opens his jaw wider, until it aches, and tears water at the corner of his eyes as Ryan thrusts further inside. His teeth graze against the shaft, but he has an urge to make this good for him, even if that means lying here on his back and just taking it. If his jaw aches so be it, he can barely feel it anyway with the drugs in his system making him see stars, feel aftershocks from his own orgasm. 

“Fuuuuck,” Ryan groans so softly Beecher can barely hear it over the squelching wet noise of his mouth being fucked. He reaches up his hands to grab onto Ryan’s hips, but the younger man swats them away. “Don’t be a fag,” he snaps.

Beecher drops his hands on either side of his head and lets Ryan slip his cock further into his mouth, and he chokes, gagging, but he doesn’t stop. He tries to suck, but it’s damn near impossible. He’s not sure why he isn’t panicking, worrying about suffocation. Perhaps it’s because he knows he’d rather die sucking this man’s cock than at the hands of Schillinger. 

Since when did he start thinking like this?

“I’m gonna come in your mouth,” Ryan grits out, the only warning Beecher is given before the back of his throat is coated in tangy cum, tasting of salt and something earthy Beecher can’t place. He can’t imagine any other inmates would taste better. 

He feels cheap when Ryan slips his cock from his lips and a trail of sticky semen follows, clinging to his bottom lip. Instead of hating himself, he finds himself laughing again. 

“Shut up, Beech, the hacks will hear ya.” He elbows his side and nods at the sink. “There, go spit.” 

“I swallowed,” Beecher tells him, belatedly. Ryan stares down at him and shakes his head, readjusting himself in his trousers. 

“Man, you’re certifiable.” 

“That’s the hardest I’ve cum in years, ever maybe,” Beecher admits, still floating on air. He can barely recall the shape and feeling of the cock that’d been in his throat minutes ago. 

Ryan fixes his hair in the mirror, and says something to himself, mumbles it incoherently before he responds. “That’ll be the tits man, trust me,” Ryan assures after stroking so much sink water through his hair he looks like he’s gelled it. 

“Do you constantly dream about women?”

“My wife or women?”

“Both,” Beecher clarifies.

“Constantly. Everyday. It’s all I think about,” Ryan admits easily. “What I wouldn’t do for some pussy. Fuck those bastards for getting rid of conjugals.” 

Beecher wonders why he’s different. Why doesn't he think about his wife every second of every day? Why doesn't he think of women that much, either? All these men and their skin mags, and he’s sat here worrying about himself, his life. Does that make him selfish, or less horny than the average red-blooded American male?

“No rumination!” Ryan shouts at him, wagging a finger. “What did I tell you about that, you’ll only make yourself feel worse.”   


“Yeah, and what do you suggest?” Beecher asks, a sardonic remark sliding through the slim veil of nonchalance these drugs are supposed to be protecting him with.

“Prostitutes or Strippers. Who would make a better astronaut?” 

Beecher giggles, the noise coarse with misuse of his throat.

“We’re doing this game again?”   


“Hell yeah we are. Strippers, come on Beecher. You know I’m right.” 

“It’s prostitutes, you dumbass,” he responds, blithely. For at least a few hours longer, he can debate over the stupidest topics that he’s ever heard, even in the world of law, and tomorrow, he can do it all over again. Addiction doesn’t seem so bad, not today. 

**Author's Note:**

> i don't even ship ryan and toby im just positive they've sucked each other off at least once. we love a show where sexy sweaty dudes are locked in rooms together lmao. maybe i'll write some chris/toby soon, i'm in the middle of my rewatch rn. if you're reading this, howdy ;)


End file.
